


Cotard

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Character Study, Fix-It, Hopeful Ending, Introspection, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Stream of Consciousness, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 14:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30056874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lyon's thoughts, after coming back from death
Relationships: Ephraim/Lyon (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6
Collections: Anonymous





	Cotard

**Author's Note:**

> If introspection from a character who believes they are not really alive, or subsequent (light) body horror elements due to the biased narration, sounds like it may squick you out, this may not be the story for you (But things are better than they seem from Lyon's perspective)

You trace the lines of purple pink white scar tissue over your ribs, over your heart, and laugh dully under your breath at the irony of that placement. Once upon a time all you wanted was to give your heart away to anyone who would take it– Eirika, Ephraim, it didn't matter who, as long as they looked and finally saw the real _you_. And once upon a time you tried to force your heart unto the twins, when your mind was clouded with a higher being's rage and malice. And then, finally, a time after that, your heart was stabbed clear through your chest until it beat no more.

Now it beats again, but you're not sure if you really feel it. You're not sure it's entirely there or entirely real. It is diminished like the rest of you after everything. You're not sure what they did to get your heart beating again, and a part of you worries, what did it really cost them? What burdens were so great that you managed to cause them so much trouble even in death? Eirika won't look you in the eyes if you ask, and Ephraim barrels past the question like it's not important.

You wonder how many other people's hearts have stopped beating because of you, and you wonder why it's only you who gets a second chance, and you wonder why, why, why, over a million and one things every new day, and you are bone tired mulling over what-if's and could-have's.

You feel cold and heavy like a dead thing, wondering if you even have any organs in your ribcage anymore.

The thing is, _something_ stirs inside there when Ephraim's hand covers the scar, traces the ridges of the nasty mottled skin, splaying fingers over chilled skin. He's like a furnace and wherever he touches, your skin starts to thaw, your blood starts to pump, or maybe it already was all along and you just hadn't realized it.

He traces over scar tissue with so much guilt etched on his face that you want to hold him close and push him away. You want to yell at him but words catch stuck in your throat. You want to wrench his hand away from wounded skin already healed, just to lace your fingers with his.

He tiptoes around you sometimes, nowadays, and you hate it. He's more _conscious_ around you now than he's ever been in his boyhood and you hate it. He makes an effort to always ask how you are, to check on you frequently yet stay three steps away, to give you space and time to adjust. He almost never touches you without permission anymore, whereas he used to get up in your space every day in your youth whether you liked it or not, because that's just how Ephraim was.

Now, the only reason Ephraim's touching your chest is because it's the first time he's _asked,_ at all, since you… since you came back. Of course, he's morbidly curious to see the damage done, the parts that won't ever heal back to smooth perfect skin no matter how much time passes. There are even matching scars on your backside, though you and Ephraim both have more fixation with the front.

You let out a shaky breath– (so your lungs do still function, it seems, to your surprise)– and gently pry Ephraim's fingers from your skin. His eyes dart to yours as he lets you maneuver his hand. It's almost funny, because he is so, so much stronger than you ever were, and yet he lets you grab his limp wrist like a rag doll. If you broke his fingers you get the impression he wouldn't flinch, he'd just allow it, and ask what else he could do for you. The image flees as quickly as it came, a pressure in your chest at the thought of pursuing such awful impulses after the horrid things you put him through. Frankly you're not sure you'd have the strength to try regardless. 

He's still looking in your eyes like he sees something there, like he's looking at _you_ , like there's enough of you here to see something of import. You don't blink, and you don't speak, you just quietly grasp his hand and lift it. 

You don't kiss his knuckles so much as your lips fall on the rough calluses there. Still, it evokes a shortened breath from Ephraim. You heard it, you know you heard it with ears that somehow still pick up sound.

He's so damn _warm_. He's like the sun in a human body, he's like an ever present burning glow that doesn't know how to stop its own radiance.

You want to feel his flames. 

You want to feel him.

You want him to make the move, you want him to push past your walls and hold you, you want him to take without asking, you want him to stop trying to be so polite and skittish because it reminds you how much of these changed mannerisms are clearly all your fault.

You are not going to get what you want, and so the only option is to take it or leave it. And deep down you are still selfish. And you force the muscles of your body forwards and grab hold of Ephraim in a tight hold, so much as you can manage. You miss catching his mouth with yours because deep down you are still a coward too.

He is hesitant, and then he is cautiously loosening his stiff arms, and then, with a sigh of relief, he is collapsing into you, embracing you like you haven't felt in a very long time. Something knocks loose and he begins to cry, hot tears against your scars on your chest. 

But your breath catches most when he presses fleeting kisses to the scar tissue. He mumbles words unintelligible that all sound like 'missed you' 'forgive me' and a string of promises. It's hard to focus on the shape of the words when his mouth keeps pressing to your chest between each sentence and the next, and each point of contact spreads searing heat in your veins. Your limbs shake with the force of your own want. Somehow your hands sneak in his hair, yank him up, and somehow you find your lips smash to his.

Your teeth knock against his immediately and you have a moment to regret. You have the next moment to lose track of all thought when Ephraim kisses back twice as hard. One of his hands comes up behind your head and holds you firmly there, the other arm wraps securely around your middle, and you feel overwhelmed and comforted by his presence surrounding you. His mouth manages to be even more hot than anything, his tongue spreads searing heat across yours, and you feel almost feverish with it. You wonder, if you take enough of his warmth, if you'd feel _alive_ once more– not just merely persisting past your expiration.

Every stuttered breath, every choked moan to come from either of you– you lose track of it but it all makes your fingers tingle and toes curl. When Ephraim finally pulls back enough to speak, it is only after he's bitten your lips relentless, and a string of saliva connects your mouths.

_"I love you_ ," he says right then, when he's caught his breath enough. His voice sounds a little funny and it goes right to your… well. Then the words process, and you freeze in the cocoon of his heat.

He kisses you before you have a chance to respond. But you are sent back thinking of the time you said those words to _him_ , yes, you have told him before, haven't you? Told him in the worst, most horrible way any person could twist such a good thing. Maybe your kind of love was never a good thing to begin with. Maybe it was always selfish and never kind, just like you yourself are–

"You don't have to say anything," he breathes on your lips, "just, just push me away if I'm too much." Another kiss, like he can hardly help himself now that the floodgates have opened. "Push me off you and I'll stop," And another kiss, and another.

And oh, you think, this is the side of Ephraim you've been waiting to have back, you want the impulsive side of him, you just never dared dream _you_ could be some irresistible thing, something he'd struggle keeping his hands off of, someone he could actually want like this even if all you've done is kiss.

You don't push him off. And he, hungrily, doesn't stop with this permission granted. Even though his hands fumble and you get a great sense he's ignorant to what he is doing. Even when his hands guide you to lay on your back and his mouth strays to kiss down your chest again. Back to that scar. To your neck, reverent, and trailing back to your mouth again.

You don't know how much longer you'll be _here_ for, but then, no one really knows. It isn't any different for Ephraim. And while you're here, even if you're the last one deserving of a second go at _living..._ it doesn't sound so selfish to take what you want if it also gives Ephraim what _he_ wants. For as long as he wants this, with you. For as long as it lasts.

Your skin is warm.

You feel your heart beat for him.


End file.
